


A Little More Stupid, A Little More Scared

by thesumdancekid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-07-08 07:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19866070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesumdancekid/pseuds/thesumdancekid
Summary: The world was saved, Armageddon was prevented, and champagne was toasted at the Ritz. Then Crowley disappeared.





	A Little More Stupid, A Little More Scared

**Author's Note:**

> This alternatively could have been titled "Feelings Are Dumb and So Is Crowley."
> 
> This definitely skews more towards Tennant's portrayal of him being kind of a Mess™ and uses the dates in the show, but was written with both the book and series in mind. 
> 
> Lots of thanks to [thpontiacbandit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thpontiacbandit/) for beta-ing this and all of her good ideas about living that cottage life! And to La_Temperanza for the [guide to coding footnotes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579026/chapters/10429149).
> 
> [Also I guess I'm sort of back on [tumblr](http://shutyourbeautifulpiehole.tumblr.com) if you'd like to find me there.]

Even Crowley himself didn't quite understand how he had fallen in love with this polite, hesitant, hedonistic hoarder of rare and expensive books. Frankly, it wasn't very on-brand.[1] What Crowley did know was that sometimes—most times—when he looked at Aziraphale, he saw the sublime. His head grew hot; his brain fizzled and sparked. His attraction and affection for the angel was a live electrical current running through him, and he'd been chasing that burning feeling for the entirety of his 6000-year existence. So it begs the question: Why now, after preventing the apocalypse and getting their respective Head Offices to finally look the other way, was Crowley hiding from Aziraphale? Well, it starts with the end of a dinner.

\---

**Sunday, One Day After the Almost End of the World**

It was a harmless comment. Moments earlier, they had been discussing the finer points of the bottle of Brut they'd been drinking, deciding what to order for dessert, and making fun of the Archangel Gabriel. After a pause in the conversation, Aziraphale mused aloud, "It seems our Arrangement is over then. Rather the end of an era, eh? A good 5,000 years was it? Suppose none of that co-conspiracy is necessary anymore. No one checking in on us and all."

"End of an era?" Crowley's brain went offline for a few moments, before he snapped back to reality, overcompensating for the long silence and practically shouting. "Yes! Very glad to be done with that whole business. Plenty of time to do whatever I'd like now. Maybe some traveling, maybe I’ll take up knitting or rollerblading."

Crowley's thoughts spiraled out of control. He hadn't considered the possibility of their relationship changing negatively as a result of preventing Armageddon, but suddenly he was confronted with an endless stream of questions and doubts. What if what had bound Aziraphale to him all this time was just a shared experience, a mutually unique position between the worlds of God and men, and nothing more? What if freedom from Heaven and Hell meant freedom from each other? What if Aziraphale had just been using the fact that they belonged to opposing teams as a gentle excuse to keep him at arm's length? Maybe he wasn't interested in anything more than friendship. Maybe he wasn't even interested in _friendship_ any more.

Something deep in his gut told him this wasn't true, that he'd seen glimpses of something more, but the intrusive questions only grew from there. What if something happened to Aziraphale? The raging flames of the bookshop flickered in his mind. Upstairs would certainly not be eager to provide a new body at this point. Or worse, what if the freedom of finally being able to be together is what drove them permanently apart? They were innately opposed after all; was it foolish to think this would work?

Aziraphale sensed he had said something wrong, but the wine was strong, the food was divine, Crowley was handsome, and his heart was so full that he was having a hard time worrying about anything. In fact, he had just said exactly all of that out loud without even realizing it, his hand gently resting on the crook of Crowley's elbow. His pupils might as well have been heart-shaped. However, this did little to calm Crowley, who was now completely panicking in the exact opposite direction from where he had been seconds before.

Was this indeed happening? He and Aziraphale were happening? Thousands of years of carefully controlled pining and suddenly it's just... happening? It was one thing to wine and dine together and make suggestions to run away together and save Aziraphale from disincorporation now and then. But an actual relationship? Would commitment even suit him? Could he bear having someone around ALL the time, nattering on about this and that? Or what if he was the one who ruined everything and broke the dear angel's heart? Crowley wasn't convinced he deserved his love, or as a matter of fact _any_ love, in the first place.

It should be noted that while inhabiting this human form, Crowley had felt a wide range of emotions a demon really shouldn't. Longing, for instance, is rather frowned upon, vulnerability is shameful, and empathy is downright laughable. But his true nature and the angelic influences of his closest friend had made them impossible to tamp down over the years. At this particular moment, he felt approximately thirty-two different emotions. One of the more hellish in nature, Fear, was leading the pack. That Fear was screaming Get Out of Here so loudly that he couldn't think about doing anything else.

He went through the motions for the rest of the evening with a calm detachment, trying his best to portray a semblance of normalcy as they shared a plate of Crêpes Suzette for dessert. As Aziraphale fiddled with the buttons on his overcoat outside the restaurant, Crowley saw his chance for a hasty exit.

"See you around, Angel." He said, leaning in and giving Aziraphale an abrupt peck on the cheek, before turning on his heel and quickly vanishing into the evening fog.

Aziraphale blinked at the now-empty space Crowley had occupied a moment ago, confused and crestfallen. Their dinner at the Ritz had been so lovely, as always, buoyed further by the joyous fact that they seemingly had nothing to worry about anymore. No Antichrist, no prophecies, no Archangels or Dukes of Hell lurking about waiting to promote them, or demote them, or generally muck things up.

"We're on our side," he whispered to the deserted street, echoing the phrase Crowley had spoken earlier.

The entire idea was a bit of an adjustment for Aziraphale, who had millennia of practicing near total loyalty to Her side, in spite of any questions or reservations he may have had along the way. But tonight, toasting with Crowley, another being he happened to have a rather undying loyalty to, Aziraphale finally allowed himself to imagine their future together. Truly together. His pulse quickened at visions of picnics in the park or walking hand-in-hand by the seashore in Brighton; an infinite number of shared meals, shared books, shared beds; the heat of Crowley's bare skin on his own, his fingers twisting through that fiery hair, his mouth exploring every inch of...

Aziraphale's cheeks blushed bright pink in the dim light and he pushed those lustful thoughts to the side, a bit embarrassed by how easily they had come to him. He truly had thought the feeling was... well, perhaps he was wrong. He did have a tendency toward blind spots, even outright denial—why, Crowley himself had pointed it out many times over the years. Maybe this was one of those instances: maybe he hadn't noticed the right cues, or even imagined the wrong ones. The intricacies of flirting and rituals of dating were a bit lost on him; terribly human preoccupations he'd never really gotten a handle on. Not wanting to go back to the darkened bookshop alone, he looked around one last time before sighing in resignation and heading down the street.

\---

Crowley was on a tear, pacing around his apartment with such speed and frustration that his footprints were being lightly etched into the floorboards, the scent of scorched wood following him from room to room. His houseplants sensed the mood and cowered even more than usual.

"You bloody coward."

He addressed the mirror in the hallway as he strode past. He stopped moving and closed his eyes, the image of Aziraphale's forlorn expression burning behind his eyelids. Earlier, as the dense fog he had created swirled around him, he took the opportunity to glance back at the angel and he knew. He knew he was wrong to doubt and wrong to run.

Crowley wasn't usually one for self-sabotage, although he had claimed to invent it. As usual, humans had gotten there on their own, making his job easier. But tonight, something about the suddenly very real possibility of getting the one thing he's always wanted; the unfettered love of this angel, _his angel_ , had sent him into a nonsensical panic. He had spent their entire lives thus far skirting the edge of temptation, testing out the boundaries between them, flirting with an indelible, invisible line, and he was adept at it. But crossing it? That was something completely unknown.

It wasn't that he thought Heaven or Hell would come after them. He felt strangely confident that neither side would bother them for now, their body-switching trick had taken care of that rather nicely. He was just rudely confronted with the idea that actually having something means there's always a possibility of losing it.

\---

The bell on the door jangled cheerily as Aziraphale stepped inside the store, locking it behind him then making his way to the back room. He fiddled around with some papers on the desk, miming productivity, before admitting to himself that there was no point right now. He put on a pot of water, spooned cocoa powder into his favorite mug, and sunk into a nearby armchair, reflecting on the evening's events while he waited for the kettle to boil.

There was a brief moment at dinner where Crowley had hesitated, his expression inscrutable, but for the eternal life of him Aziraphale couldn't remember what it was in response to. Had he said something out of line? He thought back to the other times Crowley had vanished abruptly before. There had been that fight in 1862, and Aziraphale sincerely prayed it wouldn't take 79 years for him to reappear _this_ time.

The shrill whistle of the kettle brought him back to the present. He poked around on the shelves for a bottle of Irish Cream liqueur, unscrewed the lid, and poured a healthy splash into his hot chocolate. His hand hovered over the mug as he regarded it thoughtfully and in the end, decided to pour in a second, even healthier splash, followed by a hefty scoop of tiny marshmallows.

Drinking alone amongst his books was certainly not where he thought he would end up tonight. He had to chuckle in spite of it all. Imagine that, him being the one to want to rush into something. Aziraphale had always appreciated a slow and steady progression, a reasonable amount of decorum and whatnot, as he had certain morals and appearances to uphold, but the events of the past week had turned everything he knew on its head. He had been disincorporated, for goodness sake. It was time to Carpe Diem and all that. The days of quieting his true feelings, of frightened hesitance, and of staunchly denying what he now felt was inevitable were over.

An hour later, four generously boozy cocoas deep and feeling ever bolder, Aziraphale found his phone[2] and with firm certainty dialed Crowley's number.

\---

Crowley was woken from a restless sleep, his ridiculously long limbs tangled tightly in his silk sheets, by the sound of something ringing. A small thread of irritated worry ran through his mind... could it be Downstairs looking for him after all? Granted, their usual method of communication was much less polite and much less conventional. If it was them, he would be ready to con his way out of whatever they wanted, that was for sure—he'd lost any patience for playing along. Wriggling loose from the bed, he fumbled for his phone. When he saw the name displayed on the screen, a dump truck full of worry unloaded itself, smothering anything else he'd been thinking about seconds before.

What if something was wrong and Aziraphale needed him? He should answer. But what if Aziraphale was upset with him about his odd behavior and quick departure earlier? Crowley wasn't prepared to be on the receiving end of another divine being's direct disappointment; the Fall may have been over 6,000 years ago, but it still stung. He wouldn't answer. He just wanted more time, to sort out the mess he had become, to figure out how to manage these newfound fears and insecurities, to do things properly.

The demon Crowley concerned about doing things the right way? Ha. He rolled his eyes and wondered how Aziraphale would feel if he slept for the next decade or so, just to take the edge off of the decision making. The phone continued to vibrate aggressively in his hand as he debated his options, before ultimately tossing it into a nearby trashcan and setting the whole thing on fire with a snap of his fingers. Then he threw the bin out the window, just to be safe.

\---

**Sunday, Three Weeks after the Almost End of the World**

In spite of making a point to conveniently and coincidentally show up at all of the demon's usual London haunts, Aziraphale hadn't seen or spoken to Crowley in three weeks. He was quite accustomed to being cheerful at all times, so he busied himself with his favorite activities: going out for sushi, feeding the ducks in St. James Park, arranging flowers, and searching estate sales for rare books. But even Principalities had their emotional breaking points.

He closed the bookshop earlier than usual, which rather made little difference to anyone, and decided to indulge something he'd heard Madame Tracy call self-care. He ran a hot bath, stirring in various oils and salts, scents mingling in the steamy air and stuck a spoon in an entire container of honey lavender gelato and let himself wallow. Three weeks was a highly insignificant amount of time for an immortal being, probably equivalent to the importance of a single sneeze or a yawn in the life of an average human. And this wasn't the first time they'd gotten into a fight and gone their separate ways, not by a long shot. Crowley had occasionally, off-handed and teasing, referred to those times (which sometimes lasted decades) as break-ups, which Aziraphale had simply ignored.

Pondering this, Aziraphale spoke out loud to the room. "This wasn't even a fight, was it?" He frankly had no idea what had even gone wrong.

What was not insignificant was that something had changed between them. The seed of it was planted so very long ago, growing stronger and stronger over the past eleven years, ever since the birth of the Antichrist, and had burst into full bloom as the world tried to end.

Aziraphale knew that direct conversation and full transparency had never been their style, but it seemed as if maybe now it should be—that is, if Crowley ever reappears. Why would he disappear now that they were free from expectations from Above or Below? Aziraphale sighed to himself, feeling surprisingly hurt by the demon’s abrupt lack of communication, suddenly not taking his calls. He experimented with letting a single tear run down his cheek and looked mournfully out the window, where he was currently making it rain.

After his bath and what could loosely be considered a cathartic cry, Aziraphale toweled off, wrapped himself in his favorite flannel dressing gown, and stretched out on the chaise in the cozy living room. He gestured at the small black and white television, flipping it on to what he very well knew was one of Crowley's favorite movies, From Russia with Love.[3] He watched distractedly, hugging a pillow to his chest and feeling inordinately lonely.

\---

Crowley pushed his foot to the floor, the arrow of the Bentley's speedometer rendered useless as he blew past the highest marked speed. He'd spent the last few weeks at a personal impasse, desperately wanting to reach out and apologize to Aziraphale, and alternately, stubbornly sulking in the dark fully convinced the angel was better off without him. He finally left the apartment in the middle of the night a week ago and had continued aimlessly driving all over England ever since with no real destination in mind.

It was about 8:30 in the morning on a Tuesday when he had a strange feeling he should get out of the car in the next village and walk around. Crowley was fairly confident that divine intervention was not used for the benefit of demons, but he couldn't otherwise explain the cosmic pull he suddenly felt. He had parked his car in Amberley and was strolling down a private road when he saw what he didn't know he had been looking for.

There at the end of the lane sat a squat cottage with a thatched roof; the surroundings idyllic and rural. Looking at the house, something inside was stirred loose, a small static shock to his system. A flick of his wrist and a "For Sale" sign sprang up in the front yard. A slight nod of his head and an envelope appeared on the seat of the Bentley. An envelope containing a deed to the house, signed by one Anthony J. Crowley.

He hadn't quite been able to picture Aziraphale living full-time in his sleek, expansive apartment or himself settled permanently into the dusty, cluttered bookshop. But with a bit of light demonic miracling to fix the place up, this... this could be home. Their home.

\---

**Sunday, Six Weeks after the Almost End of the World**

Aziraphale was flipping through the daily mail, instantly vanishing anything that looked like a bill or an advertisement, when a small postcard caught his attention. It simply read "Wish You Were Here" on the front, in colorful blocky letters, atop a rather generic beach scene. Turning it over with curiosity, he found the back only contained a return address and "AJC" scrawled in black ink at the bottom.

"Hmph." He was simultaneously irritated and relieved to hear from Crowley. He pulled open a desk drawer and rummaged around for an old train schedule. He didn't want to seem overeager, but it also appeared that he could arrive in the South Downs in a mere hour and a half.

\---

His eyes landed on the mailbox and he read aloud incredulously, "Alpha Centauri." It was written in a carefully painted gold script just above the house number. Before Aziraphale could properly process that, he heard a voice from the porch.

"It sure took you long enough, Angel."

Crowley stepped into the sunlight, a wry smile on his lips, taking pleasure in the electricity that was now crackling through his veins at the sight of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale squinted, head cocked to the side, unsure of exactly what was happening here.

"Oh hello there, Crowley,” he began, trying to keep his tone casual. “I've been wondering where you'd popped off to." The slight tremor in his voice betrayed that ‘wondering’ was putting it lightly, but he smiled brightly anyway.

Crowley shrugged noncommittally in response.

"'ve been around."

Aziraphale had come prepared to give a bit of a speech; he'd been mentally practicing a grand declaration of feelings and a proper laying out of ground rules for the entire bus ride. But he'd been thrown off by the location upon arriving; this mysterious cottage in the South Downs. And the unexpected flood of relief he felt at seeing Crowley standing in front of him had washed any remaining words away.

Before he could gather his thoughts again, Crowley stepped closer, his face now serious, looking as though he was about to speak with purpose.

"Look, Aziraphale. I know..." Crowley trailed off, his mouth and brain currently operating at vastly different speeds. "The thing is I… Really it’s just… I..." He hesitated and let his eyes drift beyond Aziraphale to the pile of luggage that had appeared with him. "Angel, I can't believe you brought 4 suitcases. Do you think you're... moving in or something?"

He swallowed and offered up a strained smile, attempting to look cheeky, but it came across a bit more like pained and pathetic. Crowley’s initial confidence was flagging, and the cloud of nervous energy that had been hovering around him ever since he mailed the postcard had now transformed into something solid, sitting in the pit of his stomach.

There was one coherent thought skittered through his mind: I hate myself.

He tried again. "Hm. Suppose what I'm trying to say is that..."

Aziraphale listened to Crowley fumbling to apologize, sensing where he was going, and in his impatience, blurted, "Oh Crowley, please do shut up so I can kiss you."

The words were barely out of his mouth when he decisively closed the distance between them; fingers finding the lapels of Crowley's blazer and pulling him into his arms. Crowley was momentarily motionless with shock, eyes wide behind his dark lenses, before sinking into the kiss; his hands raising up to firmly cup the back of the angel's head.

Aziraphale parted his lips, enthusiastically seeking more and more; his fingers already at work on untucking Crowley's shirt beneath his jacket, grasping at the fabric and tugging, greedily seeking the feeling of his bare skin underneath.

Crowley moved them backwards towards the door, navigating various obstacles without breaking contact. But once inside the cottage, he pulled away, breathless and questioning. Aziraphale's cheeks were flushed and he smiled radiantly. The brightness of it was almost frightening to Crowley, a slight unease at being an object of admiration crept up his spine. Of course, the angel had been doling out affection towards him in small and varying doses for an eternity, but this was something completely laid bare.

As he faltered, Aziraphale reached up, hand hovering at Crowley's temple. "May I?" Crowley gave a slight nod, submitting to the removal of his sunglasses. Aziraphale set them down on the nearby console, looked straight into Crowley's eyes, and recited the only part of his planned speech that he could remember.

"I don't want to go slow anymore."

The words swept over Crowley and he felt the disquieting feeling fade away; his usual self-assurance came back to him as he genuinely returned Aziraphale's smile. He lunged toward him and gathered Aziraphale in his arms—inciting a giggle from the angel—and carried him to the bedroom like a new bride.

They undressed each other slowly—removing clothing piece by piece—for the very human act they were about to partake in deserved following human behaviors. Besides, miracling themselves naked would have been much less tantalizing.

The sight of Crowley standing there in nothing but his black undershirt and socks certainly worked for Aziraphale, who noted absently that he was not going to have to make much of an Effort at all.

The thing he had feared for so long—giving into this temptation—felt like the opposite of a transgression. Crowley's mouth on his own seemed so familiar and safe. And if heaven was going to open up and rain fire and brimstone upon them; well, it seemed like it would have happened by now.

Crowley's brain was in overdrive; his skin alight under Aziraphale's touches. He let his own hands roam, grabbing at the soft curves of the angel's body and whispered quietly against his cheek. "I like the way you feel."

Aziraphale could sense the adoration in his voice and joy bubbled up inside his chest. He blindly found the hem of the undershirt and pulled it up over Crowley's head, letting it drop to the floor, and took a moment to properly appreciate his bare chest and narrow frame before leaning backwards onto the bed and pulling Crowley with him.

\---

Aziraphale had always found the seemingly boneless[4] nature of Crowley's body fascinating; the way he draped himself over furniture, all arms and legs, lounging and leaning and melting into it. Or his walk— _heavens above_ that walk—his hips had no right to move in such a way. And currently, those very hips were rocking against him, grinding between his legs with skill and fluidity in a most pleasurable way. The press of Crowley's already hard cock against the rounded flesh of his belly increased the dull ache in his core, and in response Aziraphale dug his fingers into Crowley's back, pulling him closer, wanting to eliminate all space between them. This was certainly an unfamiliar kind of hunger.

Crowley followed his unspoken instructions, pressing down onto him, skin against skin, letting their mouths meet again with eager, sloppy kisses, his sharp teeth occasionally nipping at Aziraphale's plump lower lip while never breaking the steady rhythm of his hips. Aziraphale moved one hand experimentally between them, playfully squeezing and stroking. Crowley groaned and squirmed, slowing his movements and redirecting his focus to the tender skin of Aziraphale's neck, sucking and licking and panting, his breath ticklish against the angel's ear.

Aziraphale was delighted by both the groan and the squirm and readjusted his grip, pulling a bit more roughly and letting his thumb glide in slow circles over the already wet tip. Crowley gave a small hum of satisfaction and then sat back, arms shaking as he shifted his weight; his lips trailing from neck to collar bones to left nipple to right nipple and across Aziraphale's stomach before finally hovering above his hip bones, providing individual attention to each spot, worshipping the angel's body with his mouth.

Aziraphale whimpered slightly at the loss of direct body contact, but his senses were soon completely overwhelmed by the hot, wet heat of Crowley taking his dick deeply into his mouth. Crowley's yellows eyes flicked up, searching Aziraphale's face, thrilled by every little indication that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. He nearly laughed out loud[5] when it occurred to him the angel's expression was not unlike when he'd just tasted a particularly decadent French pastry. Crowley was aware that Aziraphale had dabbled in the sins of the flesh—with that bastard Oscar Wilde, for one—but to his knowledge it had been well over 100 years since that time, and there may not have been any _other_ times. He'd always just assumed that Aziraphale wasn't particularly interested in getting in touch with that aspect of his humanity. Although based on his own physical temptations involving humans, which had been both brief and meaningless, he knew they were just a poor stand-in for what he truly desired.

Lost in his head for a moment, Crowley had unconsciously picked up the pace and now Aziraphale was pushing him off, overstimulated and on the edge. He pulled his mouth from Aziraphale's cock with a satisfyingly loud pop, his lips swollen and glistening, before giving it a few lazy pumps with his hand and a long, slow lick with his not-quite-human tongue, Aziraphale's legs trembling. His own dick twitched, his whole body buzzing, and he searched the angel's face for permission. Aziraphale nodded, grabbing Crowley's hand and leading it to his entrance.

"Please."

Crowley's throat suddenly felt dry so he simply nodded back, with a touch of reverence.

With a thought, his slender fingers were slick with lube, and he patiently worked Aziraphale open with one hand while his other hand wandered the angel's body; cupping his balls, tracing shapes across his thighs, brushing against his dick teasingly. Aziraphale was starting to see stars, his fists gripping the sheets, and Crowley wasn't even fully inside him yet. Two fingers replaced one and three replaced two, moving faster and deeper, before stopping abruptly. Crowley's face reappeared next to his. Aziraphale blinked, questioning, and Crowley answered with a deep kiss and a gruff command.

"Roll over."

Aziraphale obeyed, turning onto his stomach, and then felt Crowley between his legs, his erection rubbing against Aziraphale, hesitating.

"Yes, now. Please," he exhaled in one breath. Crowley pushed into him slowly, hissing unintentionally. He pulled back out tentatively before filling Aziraphale again and then repeated the motion, faster and harder, gaining momentum. His hands gripped Aziraphale's hips tightly, a sturdy anchor as his movements grew more erratic and frantic. Aziraphale felt as if he was coming apart; the friction of his own cock rubbing against the smooth sheets combined with Crowley moving inside him was wickedly divine.

Crowley felt a transcendent warmth and light spreading throughout his body. This was not the familiar sizzle of attraction; it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before—at least on this side of Heaven. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he felt immensely and unconditionally loved. This was what a celestial being had to give. This went well beyond physical gratification; though that could not be entirely discounted as he also felt the throb of pleasure coursing through him, building to a peak.

"Ohhhhh, _fuck_."

Aziraphale came first; with a whispered swear that surprised him as much as it surprised Crowley, who followed after him with a few final thrusts, collapsing against his back, all his energy spent. They laid there for a while, bodies tangled, catching their breath, for they had both become quite accustomed to breathing, although unnecessary. Aziraphale felt rather like a most pleasant pile of goo; this body really was fascinating.

After their pulses slowed and the heat started to dissipate from their skin, Crowley miracled away the mess and inquired bashfully, voice barely above a whisper, "Would it... I mean, could we... erhm...well, what if we were to spoon?"

Aziraphale felt a surge of fondness spread through his chest and lifted one arm in invitation. "Of course, my dear."

Crowley rolled onto his side, facing the wall, shifting and scooting his thin frame backward until he was tightly snuggled against the soft warmth of Aziraphale's body. Aziraphale traced a well-manicured finger across Crowley's shoulder blade and down his back, gently grazing over a pair of large, faded scars; the spot where his angel wings had been burned to black. He knew so little about before the Garden, about what exactly had happened. Maybe someday he would ask.

Crowley chewed on his lip, suddenly nervous, and broke the comfortable silence. "Aziraphale, I'm sssorry." The unfamiliar word caught in his mouth. He didn't elaborate further and desperately hoped Aziraphale knew what he was apologizing for so he wouldn't have to say anything more on the matter.

"This is all quite new and different for us, isn't it?" Aziraphale smiled mischievously, looking more like a child sneaking an extra cookie after supper than an angel who had just let a demon rail him into a stupor. He was, in fact, talking about being open and honest about their feelings, but was still enjoying the delicious double meaning to his words.

"I should say so. Worth the Effort then?" Crowley smirked, his chest already feeling lighter.

Aziraphale closed his eyes blissfully and rested his forehead against the back of Crowley's neck, murmuring against his skin. "Absolutely worth the Effort and positively worth the wait, you old serpent." He paused and then added pointedly, "Even if it took six agonizing weeks longer than necessary to get here."

"Six weeks!" Crowley sat up with a start. "Angel, it took you 6,000 bleeding years!"

Aziraphale bit back his usual impulse to get into a friendly debate with the demon and raised himself up to face him.

"I... I know, Crowley. I've realized things now that I wasn't letting myself consider before." His voice was low, tinged with regret. "The world almost ending helped me see them properly."

Crowley rolled his eyes, but it was clear he was more delighted than annoyed. He patted Aziraphale's hand affectionately and circled back to the original accusation.

"Plus, the last two weeks were spent fixing this shack up properly," he said with a bit of a pout. "I should think that counts for something."

"Oh, that's right! I haven't even taken a proper tour yet."

"Shall we, then?"

\---

The cottage, by nature, was cozy and a bit rural, so Crowley's first point of order had been to redesign the main living areas to be more minimalistic with clean lines, bare-bones decor, and modern furniture. He had certain aesthetic to maintain, after all.

The kitchen however, was perfectly designed to Aziraphale's tastes. The south facing windows let in plenty of light; the sun casting shadows across the floor to ceiling shelves which were crammed with cookbooks and some sentimental knickknacks tucked here and there. Off the kitchen was a pair of French doors that opened into a charming library; cluttered just as much if not more so than the bookshop, packed with Aziraphale's _most_ most precious first editions.

The bedroom housed a king-sized bed, covered in vintage silk linens. Over time, as Aziraphale settled in and added his own decorating flourishes, the bed became covered in more pillows than any human or supernatural entity could ever need. Crowley often grumbled about their uselessness and how irritating it was to remove them when he just wanted to take a nap, but he secretly enjoyed watching the angel fuss over their placement, arranging and prodding and plumping them up, his face adorably scrunched up with concentration.

Behind the cottage was a proper greenhouse—where Crowley managed to grow the most stunning exotic plants and flowers—even out of season, much to the jealousy of some of the older gardeners on their street. Further back on the property sat a small pond, with a bench perfectly suited for feeding the ducks.

After their first year in the cottage, they mutually decided to keep bees, a tidy trio of hives, because after stopping Armageddon, they'll be damned if the end of the earth is brought about by a lack of pollinators. They sold the honey, along with Aziraphale's homemade jams, at the nearby farmer's market where their regular patrons miraculously don't notice that the nice gay couple never seemed to age, even as the years rolled by.

They keep both the bookshop and Crowley's apartment, supposedly for their convenience whenever they decide to pop into London, but really it's more out of sentimentality than anything. Home is with each other; in this new life they’ve built, after the end that wasn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Except for the hedonism. That fit the bill rather nicely.[return to text]
> 
> 2 A basic Nokia 3310 model, as he always had found little use for keeping up with the latest technology.[return to text]
> 
> 3 Primarily due to the fact that it was one of the few Bond movies that actually had him driving a Bentley, a la Ian Fleming's original text. Instead of the now famous Aston Martin, which was in Crowley's personal opinion, quite an inferior vehicle.[return to text]
> 
> 4 Of course his corporeal form did have all of the usual bones, but Crowley had never been able to shake an inherent snakiness from his movements, nor did he really want to.[return to text]
> 
> 5 Which would have been hard to do given present circumstances.[return to text]


End file.
